Wash over your sins. Wash over my sins. The silk that surrounds us laps at our feet, it’s cool and pleasant touch soothes the aged scars which still twinge. Shadows burnt into the wall: their hands raised as if pleading against a gun or two; the flash in a clear sky comes back every now and then to bring a tear. In darkness though we found light. That perhaps one day, Sagan’s words shall at long last triumph, and no more will one have need to cleanse the skin of those few remaining whose stories shall forever permeate separate memories.
. . .Thank you. . .